


what dreams may come

by AdelineVW7



Series: other lives and dimensions [7]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gothic setting, Angst and Tragedy, Dreams and apparitions, F/M, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, painter au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineVW7/pseuds/AdelineVW7
Summary: She took one of my hands with both of her paint-stained ones, and beseeched me, “Please, dear sir, talk to my husband. Tell him it was not his fault. Tell him… tell him that I forgive him.”[this fic takes inspiration from Poe's "The Oval Portrait"; it is an attempt to capture the spirit of the work, while subverting some of its elements]
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke
Series: other lives and dimensions [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959007
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	what dreams may come

There was a chilling bite in the evening air—the wind chafing and stinging against my already raw flesh. Shelter needed to be found, and soon; there was no telling how long my strength would hold against the incoming storm. Weariness weighed down my every step, and I felt the almost irresistible pull of unconsciousness.

“Master, look!” My man pointed towards a light in the distance. I strained to see what lay ahead, past the dimness and bleariness of my vision. There seemed to be a huge manor up ahead. For a moment I marveled how I could not have seen it earlier, but I also quickly discerned the cause: there was only one lighted room in the entire mansion—the rest were shrouded in a deeper darkness than even the night around us, that promised storms.

“Speed on, boy.” He hearkened to my command, and hastily led us to seek refuge in that strange house. The moments in between that decision and our arriving at the doorstep passed me by in a delirious haze—neither the worsening weather nor the desperate worry in my servant’s voice could hold my attention. Such was the state that greeted the master of the house as he opened his door to our frantic knocking. There was a frown on his sharp, aristocratic features, which only deepens as he ascertains the severity of our condition. He _has_ to let us in, if there was a heart that beats inside his breast. A shadow crossed his face, and he stepped aside, admitting us to the house without a word.

That was the last we see of him for a while, after we were led by one of his maidservants to an ornately furnished bedroom. In the candlelight we could see that the walls were decked from top to bottom with paintings—landscapes and vignettes, and numberless portraits of the noble fathers of the house. I expressed my wonder at this, foolishly: _how could such a man be so prolific in such artistic ventures?_ The crone only frowned, before informing us the pictures were painted by the lady of the house— _ah, blessed angel! Heaven keep her._ She lingered for a moment longer, looking at the pictures. And then she took her leave.

I failed to immediately realize the import of her words; as soon as my head touched the cushions, I fell into a fitful slumber. But the strangest visions visit me that night—brought about, perhaps, by my fatigued state and the many pictures that surrounded me in my repose. Ah, but what mystery there is in love! And how wholly it moves the heavens and earth for us mortals! For what I saw that night in my dream was a lady, radiant and lovely, with sea-green eyes and hair the colour of the breaking dawn. She took one of my hands with both of her paint-stained ones, and beseeched me, “Please, dear sir, talk to my husband. Tell him it was not his fault. Tell him… tell him that I forgive him.”

I was powerless to speak; I could but listen to that glowing maiden. Her every word burned itself into my memory, and they consumed my thoughts, even upon waking.

Little did I know that the apparition would lead to story, that her gentle words would unlock the sealed lips of the inhabitants of the house.

At breakfast, I made my inquiries to the crone we encountered the previous night. “Lady, where is the master’s missus? Is she that dame, with the rose-coloured hair, and green eyes?”

The old woman started at my speech. “Ay me, dear sir! That is indeed she, but I wonder that you should know that.” Her mien grew solemn. “The blessed lady has long died, and her husband has stowed away all her portraits.”

“Then it must have been a miracle! I conversed with her last night.”

“How close you must have been to death, that you should see her! But she is the kindest spirit that ever lived… surely she must have come to you with words of solace?” The worthy woman drew closer, in her eagerness to hear my tale. With such a willing listener, the dream poured out of my lips. As she listened, the wonder in her countenance turned into deep sympathy, and sorrow. “How well she did love him! But alas, that was her undoing.”

“What do you mean, my good madame?”

“It was for love of him that the blessed creature died.”

That same moment, the master of the house entered the hall. The look in his eyes was grave—he had heard all. But before I could breathe my apologies, he forbids me with a wave of his hand. “With your coming you seemed to have pried open the vault of our memory. Very well. But do let me tell the story myself, since my beloved has already begun it. Then must you do with the tale as you will.” He seated himself across from me, and began his account.

The morning passed, and much of the afternoon, in reverie.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you found it worthwhile. 
> 
> This work is the product of my idle musings, and is an experiment to see if I could mimic the feel of Gothic prose. That being said it would be a great honour and pleasure to know what you think of the story. :)


End file.
